I think a lot about the years that shaped me, the ones that left a mark. When I look back, I see a kid who wanted to blend in, even though something in me was already pulling toward a life I couldn’t fully grasp. Ninth grade sat right in the middle of that tension. It was the year I started to understand how much the world could change around me, and how much I would have to change with it.
It was August 1990, and the threshold of a new decade was in front of us, full of possibilities and hope. I knew things were shifting, but I had no sense of how deep those changes would run. The night before Orientation, Junior High already felt like a fading photograph, and High School was waiting for me, whether I was ready or not.
Back then, it felt smaller. It felt like a night with a friend and a stack of course catalogs. Wyatt and I were in my old room on South Blvd, and he was sprawled across the floor. Our moms had grown up together, and before the divorce, he’d practically been a second brother. The St. Bart’s lock‑in the year before had pulled us back into orbit.
He was laughing as he flipped through the course sheets, treating them like a comic book. He’d circled “Physics” and “British Lit,” and drawn a tiny skull beside “AP Theology,” which he swore was destined to crush his soul before finals. We’d grown up side by side, and in moments like that, it was easy to forget we weren’t still ten and twelve years old. I looked at him and felt the old truth settle in: he was the closest thing I had to an older brother.
I sat on the edge of the bed, flipping a racquetball like it might keep my mind from drifting where it wanted to go. Jessica. The girl who moved through Catholic school like she’d been dropped in from a brighter universe. She had this way of making the hallways feel less beige, less rule‑bound, less… expected.
I never understood why she ever looked twice at me. She was all color and motion, and I was a kid trying to stay inside the lines.
She was probably off somewhere sketching in a fresh notebook, switching pens every few minutes because one shade of blue couldn’t possibly say everything she meant. I could picture her with some new fashion experiment, something bold, something she’d wear without apology.
And I tried to convince myself she’d moved on.
I was still going to Catholic school, with a closet full of new monogrammed polo shirts and khaki shorts. The collar and pleats were stiff and unfamiliar. My uniform was hanging from the closet door. I stared at it, wondering if it revealed what kind of person I should be now, and my stomach did that weird thing, like I’d already messed something up and school hadn’t even started.
I caught the racquetball and exhaled, taking my time when Wyatt spoke up.
"Is it true that she is not coming?" Wyatt asked.
“Jess? No, she's going to be at Northeast Polk, something about better art electives and no uniforms.”
“Figures,” Wyatt huffed.
He noticed me zoning out and tossed a Lemon Warhead at my face.
“Dude, I know that stare. That’s the ‘she’s gone, and my Walkman doesn’t sound right anymore’ look.”
A shrug was my response. “I mean, it’s not like we were anything.” I paused, overwhelmed by the need to believe my words.
“Besides, we sat on a curb once and shared an awkward silence,” I added, knowing there was more to it.
Wyatt rolled up on his elbows. “In your defense, it was the most romantic silence in the history of Polk County.”
We laughed. We knew it was dumb, but it felt right at the moment.
Wyatt broke the tension, “If my locker is next to the vending machine again, or the bathroom, I’m declaring fate has it in for me.”
“We can stop in the chapel and light a candle first. If you need it,” I teased.
I flipped to the orientation schedule. Uniform check, mass in the chapel, locker assignments. It all felt like I was stepping into a life I didn’t ask for but still wanted. We packed our binders and agendas and rehearsed small talk we knew we’d never use.
He tried out, “Hi, I’m Wyatt, and I'm best friends with a freshman.”
I counter with, “Hi, I’m Chris. I’m the freshman.”
At some point, it was quiet. Comfortable, more like the kind of silence before a record starts playing. Wyatt sat there chewing mindlessly on some popcorn, and I glanced at the spiral notebook on the shelf behind the door. The notebook Father Bill had told me to write my feelings in. I had scribbled lines in it that I knew I’d never say. I hadn’t written in it in weeks.
I let out another laugh as I thought about it.
A late summer storm rumbled softly in the distance. That sticky summer Florida kind, humid and heavy with lightning, but no real rain. It was 7 hours until orientation, and I felt a surprising sense of maturity, but it felt small.
I killed the light, rolled onto my side, and watched the shadows crawl across the ceiling, pulled thin by the glow leaking in from the street. It washed over my old army jacket hanging on the back of the chair. The band buttons on the collar flashed quickly in the light, like they were signaling something.
The coat didn't fit anymore after all these years. But whenever I thought about throwing it away, my neck hurt, and so I simply left it where it was.
Everything felt new, like maybe this school year wouldn’t be just lockers, notebooks, and Scantron sheets. That it wouldn't be a continuation of Saint Joe’s, but something else.
Something different.
Hopefully something real.